That Morning...

I stumbled downstairs, slowly. Man, I had a headache. I couldn't remember drinking last night, but I must have done as I had one of the world's biggest hangovers. My stomach was doing flips, and my head was pounding. 

I tried to rack my brains to remember what happened last night. I had come home from work, and George had cooked me dinner. After we'd ate, we had sat down on the sofa with a bottle of wine and... and that's it. From there I couldn't remember a thing. What was that wine we'd drank? How much had we had? 

Then I realised something. When I had woken up, George hadn't been next to me. Knowing him, he must have fell asleep on the settee. Just like him to do that, if he was as drunk as I must have been. 

I walked into the living room, then stopped in my tracks. 

Blood. Blood was everywhere. My eyes widened as I took in the puddles of blood on the floor and the red drips from the ceiling. What had happened last night? Then I looked at the armchair. There he was. George. My husband.

With a knife in his heart. 

The End

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